


wicked wench

by sanzuh



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27505132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanzuh/pseuds/sanzuh
Summary: After a day of trying negotiations with Lord Baelish, Jon returns to his chambers to find the Lord Protector's daughter waiting for him.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Alayne Stone, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 90





	wicked wench

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Norrlands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norrlands/gifts).



> This drabble was inspired by this amazing manip made by Norrlands, which you can find
> 
> [here](https://norrlands-nonsense.tumblr.com/post/633519767591026688/sansa-dressed-up-as-jon-snow-for-halloween-manip) and
> 
> [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27207841/chapters/66724882)

Jon's hand rubs his beard and forehead as he approaches the door to his chambers. It's been yet another trying day of negotiations, and every single hour he spends in the company of Lord Baelish is feeding the fierce loathing and utter disgust he feels toward the man. The slimy bastard keeps changing his mind about every single detail they've agreed on earlier, and Jon can't shake the feelings that he's stalling, though he hasn't been able to figure out why he'd be doing that.

He freezes when he enters his bedchambers. She's waiting for him again, wearing the Night's Watch clothes he wore for travel. The black cloak, the jerkin, and even the breeches. _Gods,_ how he loves and hates those breeches. They emphasize her longs legs, remind him what they feel like wrapped around his waist and hips when he's inside her, draped over his shoulders, or braced on either side of his head as he laps at her cunt. But on the other hand, they're a great deal more difficult than skirts, which he only has to lift to reach that sweet hot bliss at the juncture of her thighs. 

"Lady Alayne," he greets her, pinching the bridge of his nose as he pours himself a cup of wine. He can feel her approaching him, and then her hand is on his arm. 

He turns around, barely resisting the urge to pull her flush against his body and devour her sweet lips as he watches her studying his face with her sky blue eyes. 

She looks up at him, those eyes big and sad as she meets his, and she pouts her lips as her dainty fingers start playing with his beard. "Has my father been troublesome again?"

Jon sighs, taking a long gulp of wine. "When has he not?"

"I'm almost there," she assures him. "He needs to believe the idea was his, but I'm close. He'll ask you soon, my love."

As of late, Jon's patience has been running thin. He's not quite certain Baelish is truly willng to offer him the men, support and resources he needs. If he's not going to get anything else out of this visit, he might as well whisk Alayne away from here, steal her and make her his in the fashion of the Free Folk. He suggested it to her once, and though it seemed to excite her, she advised him against it. _"I'll let you steal me when we're safely back in Winterfell,"_ she promised him. _"But please, don't cross my father in such a way. It would be unwise."_

He shakes his head. "I don't want to talk about your father, Alayne."

"Then we shan't. What shall we talk about?" she asks, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair from his brow.

His free hand catches hers as she lowers it, his fingers firmly curling around her wrist to clasp it to his chest. She's well aware that she is driving him mad by playing the innocent. It was a startling discovery for him, he'd never imagined he might enjoy such a thing. "I don't want to talk about anything, my lady," he tells her, his voice already low and rough to his own ears. 

"Oh, my sweet lord," she purs, taking his cup from his hand so she can cradle her cheek into his palm. When she turns her head to press her soft, plump lips to the calloused skin, a shiver runs down his spine and limbs. "Are you weary? Do you wish for me to leave so you can go to bed?" 

"Lady Alayne," he growls.

Her eyes are wide and innocent, but her lips curl into a knowing smile. "Yes, my lord?" He shouldn't be as pleased as he is by the way the breath has left her needy voice, but knowing she wants him as much as he wants her is twisting his stomach into knots, even as the coil of desire in his groin already has him growing painfully hard inside his breeches.

"Get out of those clothes," he orders her, but then adds, "the cloak can stay."


End file.
